


your love is my drug

by hoko_onchi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Eliot Waugh’s Canonically Huge Dick, M/M, Mild dubcon associated with sex pollen, Quentin Coldwater’s Canonical Oral Fixation, Sex Magic, Sex Pollen, but everyone is super enthusiastic, canon divergent season two shenanigans, idiots to lovers, just a fuckload of smut, marriage magic, totally self indulgent and gratuitous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: “El—I don’t think you should touch it—” Quentin draws in a breath, and the fragrance fills his senses. Not a false fragrance like perfume, but sweet like syrup on pancakes or—he takes in another breath. Whatever it is diffuses through him, fizzier and lighter than the champagne, fuzzy warmth spreading through his nerves, his cells lit from within. When his hand glances against Eliot’s knee, a jolt hits him, like a zap of static electricity running up his arm, turning to flame inside. He can smell Eliot, the scent of his cologne spicy and masculine, mixing with the sweet, burnt sugar scent of the pollen.“You—do you feel that?” Eliot’s knuckles brush against his and Quentin whimpers at the touch, the hair on his arm standing on end.“Yeah—oh.” Quentin gasps. He blinks at the shimmering air. It makes everything look like a misty fairytale, and when he glances at Eliot again, a shockwave rolls through him, the muscles in his abdomen clenching, threads of need rolling up and weaving together inside him, swirling in the pit of his stomach. Eliot is—God, he’s exquisite. Quentin wants to worship him—fuck, he was meant to—to fall at his feet, to offer himself, mouth open, to serve him, give him pleasure.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 35
Kudos: 171





	your love is my drug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAudity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/gifts).



> Happy Valentine’s Day! LOL. Quentin doesn’t love Valentine’s Day, but he does love Eliot’s dick. So, this is what I’m bringing you today.
> 
> This is a sex pollen fic set sometime after the Beast is killed. It’s canon divergent after that, and you can just assume this is a universe where everyone gets to be happy in Fillory.
> 
> Normal consent issues/dub-con stuff with sex pollen. Let’s pretend, shall we, that upon entering Fillory, they signed forms to the effect of: ‘shall we be hit with sex pollen, we’re all fully consenting adults, and we’ll take care of one another with our dicks.’ 
> 
> This is a fic for TheAudity that I’d intended to release in January. That did not happen. I adore you Aud. You are oh so talented and amazing. And I cannot wait to see all the things you create. 
> 
> Thank you as always to Rubi, my beta, to AmbiguousPenny, FreneticFloetry and Portraitofemmy for cheerleading me through this absolute filth.
> 
> The title is from the eponymous song by Kesha.

Quentin nearly drops all the expensive Valentine’s garbage he’s holding on when he spots Eliot. 

Eliot, of course, is dressed for the occasion, if the occasion is a sex holiday, which is probably how Eliot celebrates any and all holidays. El is doing his best cosplay of Hedonism Bot, all splayed out on the chaise lounge in his quarters, wearing plum velvet leggings that appear painted on, his burgundy silk robe open, exposing the expanse of his chest and the thatch of dark hair that leads to his happy trail. Even in his reclined state, Eliot is still wearing his crown, his curls artfully disheveled. 

The crowning blow is that Eliot is actively reading a book on Fillorian farming practices, a rare sight, and he’s wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, sitting at the tip of his nose. Quentin could barely function around Party King Eliot with his custom drinks and tactical-strike flirting; he thinks he might ascend to a higher plane of being in the presence of this Eliot, the High King at rest, reading about Fillorian nut farming to provide aid to his people, his hidden sincerity peeking out alongside his chest hair.

Sometimes he thinks he must be actually dreaming. Fifteen-year-old Quentin couldn’t have conjured a dream half so sexually appealing. His teenage self certainly wouldn’t have added the plot twist that he already knows what lies in wait at the end of that happy trail—the heft of it, stretching his lips, the taste, sharp against the back of his tongue. 

If someone had told him he’d get to suck the High King’s cock, teen Quentin might have expired upon hearing it. Or just—come in his pants right on the spot. It’s a double edged sword, though, or a double-ended dick, or something like that. His relationship with Alice is over, and Eliot’s married. Not only is he married, he’ll explode if Quentin touches his dick—

—which means Quentin has been thinking nonstop about doing exactly that—touching it, just holding it and looking at it, rubbing his face over it and—fondling Eliot’s balls. And why stop there? Quentin jerks off at least once a day thinking about getting it back in his mouth. Every waking moment he’s not thinking about getting his hands or mouth or his face on Eliot’s cock, Quentin’s thinking about Eliot fucking him—bending him over, spreading him apart, sinking inside and stretching him open, making the same pleased, hot sounds he made when he came down Quentin’s throat while he fucks into him, brutal and incessant. That prospect is most alluring in part because Quentin’s never gotten fucked with a real, actual dick, and the dick in question is a) long and thick and heavy, a perfect specimen of a dick, in Quentin’s opinion and b) attached to Eliot, who is, in fact, a perfect specimen of a human.

Quentin thinks he’s going to keel over if he keeps hanging out in the doorway with two expanded bags full of champagne and romantic foods or whatever-the-fuck for Eliot and his fucking _wife_. Where is she, anyway? “Uh. Hey. El.” He clears his throat. “Uh. I’m here.”

“Good, good,” Eliot says absently, pushing the glasses up his nose—Christ, he’s unreasonably hot in glasses—and flipping to a new page. “You find everything on the list?”

“Well, most of it. I couldn’t find the bacon and spinach stuffed olives—which, uh, gross. But I got the—um ones with bleu cheese instead. Which. Also gross. Olives—just—hard pass.” 

Eliot looks up from his book, and his face warms into a grin. “No one’s perfect. You did your best, lesser king,” he says with a flourish. “Now you may enter.”

Eliot’s words send a thrill down the length of Quentin’s spine. The whole regal arrogance bit always got him going. Now, it’s just unfair. Unwarranted. A full ass attack on his person. But—Quentin tries to ignore it and rolls his eyes, shifting on his feet. “Uh. Someone’s full of himself.”

“Well, darling, someone has to be full of me, and it’s definitely not Fen.” Eliot slides off the chaise and saunters over to Quentin, taking one of the shopping bags out of his hands. 

“Uh—what? You guys have been married for like, six days. I thought you—”

“No, it was total disaster.” Eliot sets out the chilled Dom Perignon with the two champagne flutes he had Quentin pick up at Wine Time. “She broke down crying, utterly incomprehensible. I had a—shall we say—uncharacteristic failure-to-rise situation. Well. _Wholly_ uncharacteristic if there’s a dick in the mix. Definitely not surprising on either of our parts with the whole barbaric forced-marriage situation. Margo has her squirreled away for a ladies’ night.” Eliot furrows his brow. “Don’t know whether I should be pleased or terrified regarding Margo and Fen.”

“I’m going to go with—probably afraid,” Quentin says, hoisting the other bag onto the coffee table.

“Bambi says they’re watching Muriel’s Wedding—”

“Weird choice—”

Eliot shrugs. “Fen said they’d be throwing knives, so maybe it’s both. Either way. So, instead of fertilizing a maiden, I’m contemplating fertilizing the Fillorian fields.”

“Uh—yikes,” Quentin says, not sure exactly what the _yikes_ is attached to. Probably Eliot’s use of the word ‘fertilizing.’ 

“So I’m supposed to work up to consummating the marriage. Hasn’t really worked thus far.” 

“Uh. Wow. That—really sucks, I guess. So like. You’ll have to—do it soon. Right? You aren’t allowed to be with anyone else.” Quentin’s cheeks are sunburnt-hot, and he can’t stop his eyes from wandering to Eliot’s hips, the curve of his ass in the clinging pants, the vague outline of his cock. His mouth starts to water. 

“Funny thing about that—the bonding magic hasn’t taken effect yet. Apparently I have a full seven nights to make the marriage _official_ , as it were.” Eliot pops the champagne cork with a little sigh, ivory bubbles tumbling over his fingers. That is a whole ass erotic image Quentin is never going to get out of his brain. “The spell is supposed to take effect after—well, the actual act.”

“So, that’s what all this stuff is for? The Valentine’s—things. For Fen. Like. For—sex? Should I—should I go?”

“No, no.” Eliot laughs, giving him a devastating smile—bright and apple-cheeked and just a little salacious. “I need to open the groom’s gifts. I thought if Fen and Margo can watch Toni Colette lip sync to ABBA, you and I could have a boys’ night in. You could help me keep a list of thank yous. I’ll get it up tomorrow night and do my kingly duties at that time. And so, I shall not perish.” 

“Are you going to—like, die or whatever if you don’t, uh. Consummate the marriage? With like. Penetrative sex?” Quentin starts emptying the contents of the bag onto the round marble table in front of the lounge—chocolate covered strawberries, delicate macarons in shades of pink and green pastels, a giant box of truffles and caramel-chocolate marshmallows—and an entire fucking fruit basket from Harry and David.

“It sounds so romantic when you say it like that.”

“Seriously, Eliot. What happens if you don’t—you know—accomplish your kingly duties?”

“Well. I’ve talked a lot with Margo—and we don’t exactly know. In the history of Children of Earth becoming kings and queens of the realms, no High King has refused his wife within a week of marriage. Looks like I’m the exception to the rule. We’re not even officially married sans fucking. It’s been horribly frustrating thinking about sex so much—” Eliot sits back down on the chaise again. His robe has slipped down over one shoulder, the tie coming perilously close to undone. “—when it must be with someone I don’t want, who is very clearly not keen on me, either. I’m tired of thinking about it, to be frank. Let’s just—” Eliot pats the space next to him, his long thumb stroking across the gold fabric. “—have a nice night in. Just us two. Help me eat my feelings. I’ll loosen up tonight with you and be ready to do the deed tomorrow.”

“So—” Quentin laughs, slightly hysterical. He looks at Eliot, and his eyes dart away. It feels like there’s something solid and cold stuck in his throat, his pulse beating against it and making the blood rush to his temples. “—you got me to get all this stuff so you could—open presents? With me.”

“Duty of the second-king-in-command to do as the High King requests. And you did so well finding my Valentine’s requirements. Don’t we both deserve a good time? After everything?”

“Yeah. Well—I guess so.” Quentin’s eyes flicker over to the huge bed, made up with a quilted silver coverlet and about ten thousand pillows. God, it’s not any easier to look at the bed, not when he came this morning thinking about Eliot taking him to that bed—the High King’s bed—and fucking him senseless. Jesus _fuck_ , seeing Eliot like this is going to be enough erotic fuel for the next five years. If Quentin can actually survive it. He shuffles over to join Eliot on the chaise lounge.

“Good. This pleases your king.” He brings his hand to Quentin’s hair, languid and casual, burying his fingers and scratching over his head. Quentin lets out a little whimper. “Oh, you like that?”

“Um.” Quentin’s cheeks go blazing hot, and he scrunches in on himself. But Eliot is now kneading his scalp, sending shivers down his spine. “Yeah,” he manages weakly. 

God—how long has it been since he’s been touched like this? With real affection? It feels like decades.

Alice had run off to do library nerd things with Julia post-Beast—she’d never texted Quentin back after she left Fillory, officially giving up her queenship. Well, she’d texted him back once. It said: _don’t text, see you sometime_ . So. That was a thing. And this feels like heaven—it’s incredible to have Eliot’s long fingers in his hair, the force of Eliot’s attention all on him, a view of Eliot’s long body that is—currently unmarried. Quentin is probably the last person in Fillory Eliot would want to fuck; he has no illusions about that. But—he can look. He can _think_ it. And Eliot’s dick won’t explode.

“I promise a full scalp massage after we make a list of these gifts. I have a truckload, including a Kitchenaid mixer from Alice and Julia. Write that down.” Unfortunately, Eliot takes his hand away from Quentin’s head to telekinetically call over a small notebook and a fountain pen. 

“Oh, yeah. I can—take notes. As instructed.” Quentin gives Eliot a little salute and clears his throat, smushing himself into the corner of the lounge, pulling his knees up and propping up the notebook. 

_Kitchenaid Mixer - Julia and Alice_ , he writes. 

Eliot is moving his hands in practiced, fluid movements, pulling a four foot pile of gifts through the air to land gently in front of the chaise lounge. “I’ve got the mixer in the kitchen already. Margo figured out how to give it a temporary charge with a spell. Alice wrote a little booklet of enchantments to install electricity in the castle. She said Julia helped her work out the Circumstances.”

“Are they?” Quentin knits his brow, thinking back to his last conversation with Julia. She’d mentioned _their place_ , like it was a thing. Quentin thought they were roommates because Quentin is the last to know every fucking thing. “Like. Are they _dating_? I thought. Like—I thought Alice was straight.”

“I thought you were straight.” Eliot winks at him. “Turns out…” Eliot picks up a rectangular package, wrapped up in fine silver paper. 

“Uh, yeah.” Quentin bites his lip. “Not even a little.”

“That’s how I like my boys. Confused until they’re face to face with a dick.” He unwraps the package to reveal a pile of furs. “Hm. This is—just so useful.” 

“I wasn’t ever _confused_. I know what I’m about, Eliot.” He rolls his eyes, which Eliot doesn’t see. So he does it again, even harder, when Eliot glances at him.

“Sorry, Q,” Eliot says absently, hunting through the white furs for something, maybe a card. “Mark this down as from the Lorians, I think. They have a whole thing for furs. Don’t they? Or is that the Floating Island people? Ah. Here it is. Yeah, Lorians. Furs from the Lorians.”

“I’ve always been bi—” 

“Write it down, darling. We must have proper thank you notes to maintain diplomatic relations. It simply won’t do to receive all these gifts without a list for thank you notes. Fen says it’s tradition to post the list of all the gifts at the next public execution, but Uncle Eliot thinks thank you notes are a bit of a step up. Bringing Fillory into the twenty-first century. Or whatever it is here.”

“Okay. Yeah. We’re going to do that. Thank you notes.” Quentin reaches for the champagne and takes a gulp, following it with a chocolate covered strawberry before making a note: _Furs - Lorians (which Lorians?)_ Eliot is apparently ignoring Quentin’s definitive statement about his sexuality, which is just as well. He made it clear—he’s not heteroflexible or what the fuck ever. Eliot should have figured that out.

Eliot’s already unwrapping the next gift, which is apparently a set of cereal bowls from Target. “Cereal bowls from Josh,” he says.

“Why would he think you need cereal bowls?”

“Beats the fuck out of me, but write it down,” Eliot says, levitating the bowls and sending them to a spot on the dresser next to the door. Quentin makes a note, settling into a rhythm of writing down thank you note recipients, noshing on macarons, drinking champagne, and spying on Eliot’s chest hair. More or less in that order. 

_Cereal bowls (gift receipt included, can return to Target for store credit) - Josh_

There are fertility charms from The Floating Islands, beetle gold from the Pickwick clan, a gift card to Bloomingdale’s from Margo’s dad… it’s a weird assortment. They’re both tipsy and giggling, listing closer and closer to each other as the pile is sorted and Quentin writes decreasingly coherent notes, focused as he is on the warmth of Eliot’s body, the scent of his cologne, the rosy crinkles of his nipples, which the robe thankfully does nothing to hide. 

In general, Quentin has a low opinion of Valentine’s Day. It’s a holiday created by billion dollar corporations whose job it is to make the masses feel inadequate. Most of this stuff—fuck, all of it—was invented to make single people feel shitty and make coupled up people want to spend money on absolute bullshit. 

But this—this is nice. Eliot’s eyes catching his, the brush of his long fingers against his wrist as he hands Quentin a macaron or pours him another glass of champagne. This feels—warm and sweet, his mind hazy and bubbling, little trickles of desire wending their way through Quentin’s body. Not that he can _do_ anything about it—but it’s nice to sit with Eliot and _feel it_. 

Eliot floats a small, heart shaped box over to the table. Unlike the rest of the presents, it’s unwrapped—a plain, polished wooden box, dark and light wood knitted together with—it’s fucking— _bizarre_.

“Pretty,” Eliot says absently. He pushes the glasses up his nose and squints at it. The air just above the box shimmers.

“Wait, something is—I dunno— _off_ ,” Quentin says. He does a Mann Reveal, bringing the rectangle of his thumbs and forefingers up to one eye. The box had been formed with a few different joining spells, but it’s not warded, just locked with a simple gifting spell that should release when Eliot picks it up. Still, there’s something—

“There’s something weird about that box.”

“Hm?” Eliot isn’t paying attention; instead he’s picking up the box and holding it flat in the palm of his hand. “Oh, look. There’s a note.” A little piece of paper comes free from the bottom, and Eliot holds it up, squinting. “ _For your… wedding night. This Fillorian flower should make for a_ , hmm, I can’t see—” Eliot absentmindedly puts the box down on the edge of the table and holds the note close to his face. “—ah, okay. _Make for a productive evening._ Well that’s cryptic. And _whimsical_. My favorite.” Eliot grabs the champagne and nearly knocks into the box with his knee.

“El, I’d be careful with that. You don’t know what’s in there—Fillory is a lot like Australia. Everything here is, like, actively trying to kill us. So.” Quentin pushes the box with his big toe so it’s sitting in the center of the table.

Eliot downs a gulp of champagne and makes a show of selecting a strawberry, bringing it to Quentin’s lips instead of his own. “Open up, baby. Take a bite.”

“Oh my God, El—”

“Take just a little nibble. Let me see those pretty lips work—” Eliot bites his lip and dissolves into laughter as Quentin surges up to take the strawberry, covering his lower lip and chin in chocolate and pink juice in the process. “Messy boy.” 

Quentin snorts and stretches out, yawning as he chews up his strawberry. He notices Eliot’s eyes flicker down to his mouth, which is totally normal. For one, Eliot looks at his mouth _all the time_. And—he just mentioned Quentin’s mouth, so that makes sense, too. “We’re moving pretty slow on these gifts. Is there a spell we could do—”

“Unfortunately, we’ll just have to suffer. We’ve got maybe ten more. Then we can braid each other’s hair.” Eliot kicks his foot up onto the table and hits the box with his heel, sending it back to the edge of the table, teetering close to the edge, like it—

“That’s so strange. It’s like it _wants_ to drop—”

“Doubtful. Probably some nonsense from the Fillorian Fucking Gardens, or whatever they’re called.” 

“The Fillorian Fucking Gardens?”

“Yeah, something like that. Apparently there’s some plant pollen there that makes you need to fuck—” Eliot pushes the box back to the center of the table—and both of them watch, wide eyed, as the air starts to shimmer and the box starts rattling against the table like it’s possessed and—it fucking lifts itself and hovers just above the table. 

Quentin swallows hard, heart beating in his throat. “Eliot, are you—is that your magic—”

“Um, no, I am decidedly not.” Eliot raises his hands to cast, pushing on the box with his magic, pushing _hard_ , and the damn thing just _hangs_ in midair, wobbling. Eliot tuts again, pushing at it with his telekinesis.

“El, let it go—”

“No, it’s _fine_ , Q. Don’t be such a—” The box zips up, hanging four feet above the table and flinging itself down onto the marble where it quivers for a moment—

“Eliot—what the— _Fuck_!” 

And then it explodes. 

“What is this fucking thing? A glitter bomb?”

That _is_ what it looks like. The shining particles are so much smaller than glitter, though, falling around them in a fluffy pink and gold cloud—and it smells like—

“Honeysuckle,” Eliot says wistfully, reaching out and letting the powdery mist fall through his fingers. 

“El—should you—I don’t think you should touch it—” Quentin draws in a breath, and the fragrance fills his senses. Not a false fragrance like perfume, but sweet like syrup on pancakes or—he takes in another breath. Whatever it is diffuses through him, quicker than any drug, fizzier and lighter than the champagne, his skin buzzing, fuzzy warmth spreading through his nerves, his cells lit from within with a pulsing pleasure. When he shifts and his hand glances against Eliot’s knee, a jolt hits him, like a zap of static electricity running up his arm, turning to flame inside and—it smells _so_ good. He can smell Eliot, too, the scent of his cologne stronger than it should be, spicy and masculine, mixing with the sweet, burnt sugar scent of the cloud around them.

“You—do you feel that?” Eliot’s knuckles brush against his, intentional this time, and Quentin whimpers at the touch, the hair on his arm standing on end.

“Yeah— _oh_.” Quentin gasps, his voice dazed and dopey. He blinks at the shimmering air. It makes everything look like a misty fairytale, and when he glances at Eliot again, a shockwave rolls through him, the muscles in his abdomen clenching, threads of need rolling up and weaving together inside him, swirling in the pit of his stomach. Eliot is—God, he’s exquisite. Quentin wants to worship him—fuck, he was meant to—to fall at his feet, to offer himself, mouth open, to serve him, give him pleasure—

Eliot grins, letting out a little sigh as he looks over Quentin’s body. “Pretty Q.” He brings the tip of his finger to Quentin’s nose, tracing down the line of it and booping him at the tip. “You look extra pretty right now.”

Breathing in feels like—like sinking into a hot bath after a day in the snow. And Eliot—he leans in and runs his fingers over Quentin’s arm, squeezing his bicep. Quentin _moans_ , an ungodly, desperate sound, Eliot’s simple touch sending an erotic rush through him. In his jeans, his cock twitches. God—what the fuck—what the _fuck_ —

“You’re the pretty one. The prettiest king,” Quentin says, giggling at himself because he doesn’t talk like this, and he certainly doesn’t say shit like this to Eliot. A cold slip of panic slices through him, but it’s replaced by warmth and a low, pulsing pleasure when Eliot cards his fingers through Quentin’s hair. When he looks down, he sees that his hand is running over Eliot’s velvet-clad thigh.

“You’re the prettiest king,” Eliot says, sweeping Quentin’s hair behind his ear. It hits him like a gut punch when Eliot pulls his hand away, but the visual is—well, it makes Quentin’s dick twitch, like actually jerk against the fabric of his jeans. Eliot, clad only in his velvet leggings, leans further into the mist of—whatever the fuck it is, his robe falling down over his shoulders, and he’s tugging at the silk tie, letting it fall open. He shrugs off his robe and sort of—shimmies forward into the cloud. “God, it feels so good. Do you feel it?”

“Y-yeah.” Quentin can’t take his eyes off of Eliot—the shape of mouth, the shine on his lips, the broad line of his shoulders, the tensing of his muscles, all long and solid, as Eliot inhales again and moans, a shudder rolling through him.

Eliot takes off his glasses and his crown, placing them on the table before he runs his hand through the cloud of dust, his fingers glittering with it. He brings the pad of his thumb to his lips and sucks at it, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. “God, that tastes incredible.” Eliot’s voice is a sensual rasp, the sound of it sending a shock through Quentin’s core. He can’t help watching Eliot, slack-jawed, as he licks his fingers, his lips and cheeks shimmering with. 

“What’s it—what’s it taste like?” Quentin sticks out his tongue and catches a bit of the dust—

“Like fresh buttercream frosting—”

“Chocolate chip cookie dough,” Quentin says, shivering even though he’s—getting hot. Like, the kind of hot you get on clear, sunny days in the spring or fall, when the sun isn’t overbearing, and it’s not humid. He just wants—needs—to get rid of the fabric that sits between him and the glimmering cloud. Between him and Eliot. His nipples are crinkled up, shocks rolling through him when they brush against his shirt. And it’s all—too much. Fuck it—this is their slumber party, or whatever so—

He pulls his t-shirt over his head, getting everything stuck at his shoulders somehow. He’s almost got it over his head when he feels Eliot’s warm hands on his ribcage, slipping beneath the shirt and pulling it over his head. “There you go, Q. It’s hot in here, huh?”

“Yeah, the fire or something,” Quentin mumbles. “Got hot in here.” There’s a heaviness building in the cradle of Quentin’s hips, tumbling and prickling inside, his pulse a hot rhythm within—it makes him think of—the beach—long hours spent in the sun, patches of sunburn aching almost pleasurably after sliding into a cool shower. He’s dimly aware that Eliot is even closer to him now, his velvet-clad leg bumping up against Quentin’s, a large hand resting on the back of his neck. 

Eliot is licking his fingers again, his hands and face covered with the fragrant, powdery mist. It somehow makes him look even more beautiful, firelight reflecting in the shimmer on his skin. “Tastes like—flowers. Smells like—honey—” 

When Eliot looks at him, his eyes are blown black—like he’s taken a fistful of shrooms or a few hits of magic ecstasy. Quentin shakes his head, a thread of uneasiness pushing its way into his subconscious. _Honey. Flowers._ He blinks, slow, trying to think—why he might worry—because Eliot is so beautiful and so close—and he’s bringing his finger to Quentin’s mouth. “Wait, El—”

Quentin swallows his protest when Eliot’s finger touches his lips, a shock rolling through him, waves of pleasure pushing out and expanding through his chest, down through his belly, his thighs quivering, cock plumping up in his jeans. He opens his mouth and sucks Eliot’s finger between his lips. 

The sound Quentin makes is obscene—half-groan, half-whimper—as he tastes Eliot’s skin. He’s right—it’s like wildflowers and honey and thick, sweet cream. Grabbing Eliot’s wrist, he takes a second finger in his mouth, licking along the seam between them, gathering the taste on his tongue and moaning, cheeks hollowed. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous, Q.” Eliot’s voice is shaking, and Quentin gets it because—there’s a low, thrumming, persistent ache in his thighs, and his jeans are hot and tight, the room is fizzing-bright, all the colors saturated when he opens his eyes. “That tongue—God, I want—”

Eliot pulls his fingers away, and Quentin chases after them, mouth still open, moaning as he flops against Eliot’s chest. A warm hand comes to the center of his back, and he nearly sobs. The touch against his bare skin is almost soothing, the weight of Eliot’s hand reassuring, but it ignites something bigger and brighter inside, his gut clenching as those long fingers sweep over his skin. “Eliot, what the fuck. I’m—so high—”

“Oh, my God—” Eliot starts, giggling to himself and—holy fuck, moving his hand lower, dipping his fingers into the waistband of Quentin’s jeans, sending shivers all along the length of his spine. His cock _aches_ , pulsing hard, his balls so tight they’re painful when he shifts close to Eliot, tracing his fingers over his shoulder and marveling at the length of his arms and his huge body, nose pressed to the fragrant center of his chest. 

“Hm?” Quentin drags his fingers through Eliot’s chest hair, aware that Eliot said something and he should maybe respond to it but, overall, much more concerned about the hot panting of Eliot’s breath against his head as he pets Eliot’s chest. “You said—”

“I am also. So fucking high.” Eliot’s voice is rough. “Think it was that box thing.”

“Musta. Musta been that. The glitter bomb.” Quentin’s mind drifts, and he’s vaguely aware of his mouth against Eliot’s skin, tongue darting out to gather a sweet bit of the dust from the box, just at the upper swell of his pec. Quentin presses his teeth to Eliot’s skin. He has the urge to bite down, but he doesn’t want to hurt Eliot or mar his beautiful skin, so he opts for rubbing his face against Eliot instead.

“Fuck, baby, c’mere. You’re too far away.” Eliot’s hands are tugging at him, and he finds himself standing between Eliot’s long legs, looking down at the purple velvet and the lewd outline of Eliot’s cock, hard against one of his thighs. Quentin lets out a garbled sound when he sees it, his brain blanking out for a moment as he imagines sinking down onto Eliot’s dick. Fuck, he needs to—god, he needs to go jerk off somewhere, but—that would mean leaving Eliot, and he couldn’t do that. He needs to be close, to touch and take and give everything—anything Eliot needs.

“El, please,” he whines. “Please touch me.”

“Oh, baby. I will.” He runs his hands over Quentin’s sides, lighting up his nerves, heat thrumming through the cradle of his hips. “But you’ve got on too many pants.”

“So do you,” Quentin says, giggling, leaning down so his face is pressed to Eliot’s curls. His hair is _so_ soft. 

“Mmm, I’m not wearing anything under these,” Eliot murmurs.

“Like I said, you should— _oh_ , oh—” Quentin is aware, all at once of Eliot’s mouth, warm against one of his nipples, his cock in agony, trapped—and Eliot’s dexterous fingers going, undoing the button of his jeans, unzipping him as he sucks and licks, tongue scraping over the pebbled, hypersensitive bud. Eliot moves to the other nipple just as his hands slip beneath the waistband of his jeans and boxers, cupping his ass and squeezing. 

“Step out of these. Let me get a good look at you. Your High King commands it.” Eliot looks up at him, eyes full of intention. God, it was the box, the stuff in the box that did it—the fucking—pollen. Fucking pollen? The pollen that wants them to fuck— _fuck_.

“El.” The word comes out in a whimper. He doesn’t normally like being seen, not like this—but in this moment, there’s nothing he wants more. He wants Eliot to see him, his cock red and hard, his boxers wet with precome. And Eliot _wants_ to see him. The understanding hits him like a slap. Eliot wants him. 

The pressure inside builds as Eliot tugs at his jeans, his boxers rucked down but still on, still trapping his dick, as he steps out of his jeans. He was supposed to tell Eliot something but—his dick is so hot and hard, pressed into the fabric, and Eliot’s hand absently brushed against it, making him buck forward—

The coil within him pulls tight, threads of pent-up need, the desire he’s been carrying for Eliot since the moment he saw him, laid out across the Brakebills sign like a supermodel, building to a fever pitch as Eliot pulls back and takes him in, eyes raking over Quentin’s body and resting on his cock where it’s pressing against his waistband. They probably shouldn’t do anything—nothing else beyond this—not with the fucking glitter bomb—

“You’re all hard for me, hm?” Eliot’s knuckles brush over the underside of his dick, on purpose this time, and Quentin cries out, tears springing to his eyes as his body buckles. Eliot catches him, instinctive, and a hot spiral flies through his stomach, simmering through his limbs. He can feel wetness wicking into the jersey cotton, fresh from the head of his dick, his whole body clenching against the almost uncontrollable urge to let go—give himself over to Eliot. “What do you want?” Eliot’s voice is all soft sincerity as he plays with the waist of Quentin’s boxers, carefully avoiding his cock in favor of squeezing his ass. “I wanna see that sweet little dick. See how hard you are for me. Make you feel so good. So tell me—”

“I don’t—” Quentin whines as Eliot tugs at his boxers, bringing on a new wave of hyper-arousal, his pelvis pulling tight as Eliot watches him, smirking—even though Eliot’s not much more contained, his cheeks flushed and hands shaking. “I don’t know. You can—anything. Anything you want.”

Eliot’s smile seems brighter than the moon or the sun or—whatever is the brightest thing, Eliot’s smile is that. His cheeks pink, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. And he’s looking at Quentin like—like he’s a hawk and Quentin is a flying squirrel. And Quentin wants to be— _devoured_. “Yeah? You trust me?”

Quentin nods weakly, trembling as Eliot’s hands sweep over him, keening when Eliot tugs the waistband down over his cock, letting it spring free. He almost seizes up and comes when it hits the air. It’s all wet at the tip, hot and red, curved up toward his belly—and Eliot’s eyes are glued to it, like he’s drinking Quentin in. “So cute, Q. You’re the very prettiest. Come sit in my lap, let me—” 

Eliot pulls him in until Quentin stumbles forward, straddling him on the couch, his dick brushing against the fur of Eliot’s stomach, tears stinging the corner of his eyes as he bucks forward, trying to find friction, his cock and ass tight and pulsing and _fuck_ , so hungry. Leaning forward, a nervous tightness rising in his chest, he presses his lips to Eliot’s, showers of sparks flying in his mind as he slots their lips together, swallowing the little moan from Eliot’s lips. He barely remembers kissing Eliot before—if he’s being honest, he mostly remembers Eliot’s dick—but now, he’s consumed by it, Eliot’s lips hot against his his, tongue soft and searching, fingers tangling in Quentin’s hair. God, it’s—it’s so good—too good, Quentin’s cock throbbing, dripping over Eliot’s kingly pajama bottoms, evidence of his undeniable wanting.

He feels Eliot’s hands moving in a series of tuts behind his back, and he vaguely wonders what Eliot is doing, focused far more on the erotic satisfaction of being small and held like this, kissing Eliot on and on. He doesn’t realize what’s happening until Eliot brushes oil-slick fingers over the head of his dick, tracing down the underside and gripping him in his massive fist. Quentin is nearly crying now, shameless as he kisses and bites at Eliot’s lips, hips bucking spastically as he fucks into the tight-hot, slick space of Eliot’s hand, not even ten times before his mind is whiting out and he’s biting down at the inside of his cheek as his fingers and toes go almost numb, the muscles in his low back clenching hard as he thrusts in, a wave swelling inside him as— 

“Oh, Q, baby,” Eliot murmurs, close to his ear, “that’s just what you need, huh? Get me all messy.” —Eliot’s hand is working faster now as Quentin thrusts into it—and, all at once, he seizes up, coming in spurts over Eliot’s belly, white streaks over his dark hair, dribbling down over his velvet pants. It goes on and on, like waves lapping against the shore and finally receding as he comes back to himself, little by little.

Eliot is kissing him again before he can think, cradling the back of Quentin’s neck, guiding him as he coaxes Quentin’s mouth open and pushes his tongue inside. A firm hand squeezes his dick again, and Quentin chokes on a sob, painful arousal clutching at him. He’s still so fucking hard, but it _hurts_ . He wants—needs—more but—he squeezes his eyes shut, tearing up and shuddering. “Oh— _fuck_ , it’s too much—”

“Shh, shh, you’re okay.” Eliot moves his hands to Quentin’s ass, squeezing gently. His eyes are dark when he meets Quentin’s eyes. “You think you can come again when I get inside you? Hm? Or do you want me to fuck that pretty mouth first?” Eliot kisses him again, intense and brutal, teeth scraping over Quentin’s lower lip before he pulls back, panting. He brings one hand to Quentin’s throat, clasping him, firm but gentle, one thumb running over his Adam’s apple. “You need it, huh? You have no idea how gorgeous you are.”

Quentin stares at him, his mouth slack, body still trembling. He doesn’t have words for any of what Eliot just said because—he’s still aching hard, the magic of the whatever it was—sex pollen—still ticking within him like a stopwatch, still focused entirely on Eliot, driving his need to insane heights. He’d be half asleep after coming like that on any normal night. But right now, it feels like he’s had a viagra shot straight to the dick. If anything, he’s _harder_ than it was before he came the first time. It’s not only that—he feels fucking empty, needy for Eliot to fill him up.

“Tell me,” Eliot says. There’s sweat blooming over Eliot’s brow, a splotchy, red flush creeping down his neck and over his chest. When Eliot shifts, fingers still kneading Quentin’s ass, his cock brushes against Quentin’s thigh; Eliot sucks in a sharp breath, fingers digging into Quentin’s flesh. “Fuck, Q, you don’t know what you do to me. You have to—have to tell me. I’m about twenty seconds away from fucking you senseless on the coffee table. And I’d really like to—not to do that, okay? We should have… consent in the realm of—whatever the fuck is happening.”

Quentin still can’t speak; the pressure in his blood is building again, madness building and swelling within, as he trembles. He manages to press his lips to Eliot’s, drawing him into a rough kiss, imbued with all the wanting he’s squirreled away, kept hidden. In the month they’ve been in Fillory, Quentin has done nothing but want Eliot. It breathes within him, a creature scrabbling in his chest, and he pours it into the kiss, shaking against Eliot, showing him how much he _wants_ . When he pulls away, he’s still panting, but he feels coherent enough to—to tell him. “Fuck, I want—please—I wanna blow you before you—” Eliot grips his ass hard, fingers brushing between his cheeks and just over the sensitive rim of his hole. “—ah, fuck, El—” He pushes back against Eliot’s fingers, searching it out, needing it again, _more_. “—before you fuck me—please—”

Eliot lets out a half-strangled sound, pulling Quentin in close and clutching him and—Quentin must lose time, because the next thing he knows, he’s being lifted in Eliot’s arms and carried to the massive bed that has been the center of so many of his fantasies.

Eliot is wearing a rosy blush, his eyes dark and glazed over, hands shaking as he presses in close to catch his lips again, his fingers tracing over the line of his neck and over his back, wholly un-Eliot-like in his hesitance. He pauses between kisses, thumbing over one of Quentin’s nipples before his hand travels down again to grip Quentin’s ass. “God, I’ve wanted you, so much,” Eliot says, his voice tremulous. “I don’t wanna—” He swallows hard, throat bobbing. “—don’t wanna hurt you—”

“You won’t,” Quentin says. His lips are swollen and still tingling from the pollen. His words sounds slow and far away, the coiled up need in his body still beating on, his body reaching for Eliot, craving him like a drug. “I’m gonna—I dunno if I’m very good at this—” Quentin pushes out a breath, steadying himself, and reaches down to smooth his palm over the bulge in Eliot’s leggings. Eliot keens as Quentin grips him, nearly shouts when he pushes his hand beneath Eliot’s waistband, gripping his beautiful cock and running his hand over it, thumb pressed to the head. “—but I’m gonna try to make you feel good. I know you—you’d probably rather be with someone else if—”

“God, Q, no, I want you—I’m always—always wanting you—”

“Well, I wanna—um—” Quentin is breathless, blushing bright red now, but he manages to push down Eliot’s leggings. His dick springs free, thick and heavy against his leg, a drool of precome sitting at the tip. Quentin can’t take his eyes away from it. Even on sex pollen and three glasses of expensive champagne, he’s way less fucked up than he was when he sucked Eliot’s dick with the emotion bottle insanity. And he thinks—it’s possibly the nicest dick he’s ever seen. He wraps his fingers around it, and Eliot makes a wounded sound, his breath hitching. “I need it— _ah_ —” Eliot’s fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight. Quentin whines, prickles running down his spine. 

“What do you need, baby? Tell your High King.” Quentin’s eyes almost cross when Eliot refers to himself by his royal title. This is like—every Fillory fanfic Quentin ever wrote, thinly veiled self-inserts where he ended up pleasuring the king, living up to each filthy request. He’d spent hundreds—thousands—of hours fantasizing in his youth and—honestly, that hadn’t stopped in college. Or grad school, if he’s being honest. But Eliot is better, somehow, than any fantasy Quentin ever dreamt up—more beautiful, more thrilling, more commanding. Eliot gives Quentin a wicked grin, shooing away Quentin’s hand and taking his own cock in hand. With thumb and forefinger, he pulls back his foreskin, swiping his thumb over the tip and gathering up the wetness. He presses the pad of his thumb to Quentin’s tongue, and Quentin moans, eyes rolling back in his head, thunderous desire rumbling through him as his eyes flutter shut and he takes in the bitter, salty taste of Eliot’s come. “Good boy. That’s so good. Now, tell me, Q. Use your words.”

“Holy _fuck_ —I want it—need it in my mouth. I need to taste—I need to swallow your— _perfect dick._ ” Eliot chuckles which is—fine, whatever—Quentin can barely string his words together, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care, not right now. He’s nearly drooling over this thick, gorgeous cock, thick arousal swimming through him, climbing up his spine and crackling in his chest, resting in his hips and the aching length of his cock. It’s not just that, Quentin thinks, glancing up at Eliot’s rapt face. His High King wears just the shadow of a smile now, the laugh fading from his lips as Quentin opens his mouth, eyes locked with Eliot’s. His own cock twitches with need as he darts his tongue out and licks at the head, so close but not close enough—

“Yeah, yeah, come on,” Eliot says, his voice rough, moving Quentin closer to his cock. Quentin’s mouth is open, and he’s _so_ close to Eliot’s cock—but he can’t quite reach—his mouth aching, longing for the stretch against his lips. “You liked it when I guided you before, when I pushed you down on my cock—”

“Hnnn—please, oh my God. Show me—put me—where you want,” Quentin says, gasping, ravenous for Eliot. The fact of Eliot even acknowledging what happened between them, the repeated fact of his _wanting_ , it makes his thoughts floaty and light. 

Eliot’s curls are wild, eyes dark and focused on Quentin. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Quentin’s limbs go liquid as Eliot guides him to his cock, still gripping Quentin’s hair, tugging and pulling until Quentin’s mouth right at his tip, Eliot holding his dick and guiding him down— “That’s it, Q—open wide for me.” —until it slips past his lips. 

Quentin moans around Eliot’s dick, eyes rolling back in his head as his lips stretch to accommodate, the head pressing against his palate and further, as Eliot guides Quentin’s head and tentatively thrusts up into his throat, thighs trembling. Moaning, bleary from the pollen and the high of having Eliot’s cock in his mouth, Quentin—well, Quentin does his best. He doesn’t know how good that is, really, but he does what he remembers Eliot liked before—working his lips and tongue over the flushed, sensitive head, licking along his slit and gathering precome on his tongue, working his hand over the thick base, squeezing tight. 

“You love it,” Eliot murmurs, “love sucking cock, using that filthy mouth.”

Quentin can only make a truly shameless noise in response, gripping Eliot’s thigh with his free hand and—and holy shit, Eliot trembles beneath his fingers as Quentin hollows his cheeks and takes him deeper. The head of Eliot’s dick skims the back of his throat, not enough to make him cough, but it’s enough to make his eyes water. It’s not quite pain—more an immediacy of sensation, a quick punch to his system that makes him feel alive—hyper aware of his surroundings—the soft pillows and blankets piled high, the fuzz of Eliot’s body hair, the spill of his own saliva over his fingers as Eliot bucks up into his mouth.

Eliot is gasping, one hand tugging at Quentin’s hair, the other digging into his shoulder as Quentin takes him deep, whimpering and moaning when Eliot allows him the space to breathe. His own cock is still iron hard, leaking steadily, dripping onto the fine silk and fur throws on the bed. 

“Oh fuck—Q, baby, I wanna see, wanna see it—” Eliot yanks him up hard pushing him back easily since Quentin is all boneless and dazed. Eliot is pushing up onto his knees, and Quentin whines at the loss, his mouth and hand empty, tears rolling down his cheeks, the magic from the pollen making his skin pulse with need, need for Eliot to touch him, look at him, _anything_. Eliot moves him to his back, running a soothing hand over his hair as he positions himself just above Quentin. “—shh, Q, I just wanna see. Need to—see you take it. Open up that filthy little mouth.”

Quentin whimpers and opens his mouth, his tongue out. Eliot makes a pleased sound, his body shaking and twitching as he slicks up his fist and wraps his elegant fingers around his cock. He’s wild, grunting and uncontrolled, in a way that Eliot never really is. “God, you got me so close. Gonna watch myself come all over that soft little tongue. Make you—all dirty, like you need. That’s what you need, huh? If I had you, baby, I’d make sure you got a taste of this cock— _ah_ —” Quentin’s senses are filled with the slick, hot sounds of Eliot stroking himself, frantic now. “—oh _fuck_ —every fucking day—”

Eliot jerks forward, nearly falling on Quentin, but he catches himself on the headboard and angles his cock so that it’s inches from Quentin’s lips. He lets out a cracked, broken sound and shouts, releasing and painting Quentin’s tongue white, coming in hot, salty stripes over his lips and mouth. Eliot is nearly sobbing when he jolts forward and lowers himself close to the bed, pushing his cock, rough and wild, between Quentin’s lips, all the way to the back of his throat. Eliot’s dick pulses against his tongue, and Quentin feels it, senses it—a jolting forward, the cascade of heat coating his throat. He swallows, moaning, not even realizing that his own hand is furiously stroking his cock until Eliot pulls away and catches his wrist. 

“No,” Eliot says, firm. “Not like that, baby. I wanna feel you clench around my cock the next time you come for me.”

Quentin has no idea how Eliot is still forming words. He’s flushed and sweating, his hair wild, but his voice is almost composed, showing little sign of the frenzy that Quentin feels. “Please—fuck—I need you to get inside,” he mumbles, tugging against Eliot’s grip, because that seems to be the only thing he _can_ say. It seems now that it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted, that he’s never wanted anything more. 

“Look at you, all desperate.” Eliot wipes one finger over Quentin’s lips and tucks it into Quentin’s mouth. He sucks at it, head swimming when he realizes it’s covered in Eliot’s come. Chuckling, Eliot gathers more and feeds it to him, grunting as, this time, Quentin licks it from the pads of his fingers, shivering at each taste. His hips and thighs _ache_ , balls hot and heavy and painful, drawn up tight like he never came at all, like he’s been sucking Eliot’s dick for hours, waiting and empty. He’d like that, he thinks, if it was Eliot. If Eliot told him everything, had Quentin do whatever he needed. After a long day meeting with diplomats or fairies or—what the fuck ever—he could come to his chambers and find Quentin waiting for him, all slicked up and ready for him, only allowed to come when Eliot’s buried inside, his pleasure reserved for the High King—

“Did you hear me baby? Where’d you go? The Fillorian Fucking Gardens?”

Quentin’s eyes flutter open to see Eliot still kneeling, lazily stroking his still hard dick. It looks so big like this. So fucking big. Quentin’s been on the receiving end of a lot of magical mishaps, but this one, this one goes down in history as the fucking greatest thing to ever happen to him. “No—uh. What did you say?”

Eliot sits down next to him, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The touch sends a cascade of sensation down his spine, his cock jerking visibly as Eliot just digs his fingers in his scalp, soothing all the places that are sore from the pulling. “I said I’m going to have you now. I’ll fucking burn down Whitespire if I don’t get inside you. Tell me if you’ve ever done this before.”

Wide-eyed, Quentin shakes his head. “Just. I have a, uh. Toy. But it’s not as big as you. But please—I want it—I need it. El,” he says, desperate, needy, “it hurts. I need you, please. I wanna feel it. I think about it—I think about it all the time. And I—” Quentin cries, his limbs all weak. 

“Hey, you’re gonna get it. Make you feel all full when you come. Might have to do it again after that.”

Quentin whines, nodding, shameless. “Please,” he rasps. “Make me feel it.”

“Up on your hands and knees.” He gathers Quentin up and moves him into place, putting his hands against the carved wooden headboard. Quentin sighs in relief when he realizes he can hang on there, let Eliot spread his legs, move him where he needs.

He feels Eliot’s fingers ghosting over his hole, spreading him apart and holding him open. Quentin whines, sweaty hands gripping at the headboard—and Eliot just _squeezes_ his ass cheek in response. “Beautiful boy.” He feels Eliot’s thumb ghosting over his rim, and he shivers, bucking forward, fingers and toes curling reflexively. 

“El, come on—isn’t there—a spell or—”

“I came in your mouth so I could take my time. Let me look at you.” Eliot sounds like he’s more or less going for _stern_ , but there’s an underlying shakiness that sits below his words. There’s a moan behind him, and the soft brushing of skin on skin as Eliot strokes himself hard and thumbs at Quentin’s hole. “Can’t believe I’m gonna be your first. Fuck, I’m gonna wreck you, Q. Gotta get you all opened up.”

“Please— _please_ . I want it..” He whines, biting his lip as Eliot grips him, petting over his entrance. Normally, he wouldn’t be into the whole virginity _thing_ , but with Eliot—even before the advent of the crowning and the whole High King bit and the fucking skin tight velvet pants—before the emotion bottle threesome and the discovery of Eliot’s huge dick—he’d thought about it. Thought about this. Eliot taking him apart, fucking him so hard he couldn’t walk the next day. He tries to form words to respond, but he can hear Eliot jerking off, stopping, and stroking his cock again.

“Gonna work you over myself, but I do have a cleaning spell. It’ll be a little weird when I—” Eliot swallows his words, drifting off before he draws a sigil Eliot doesn’t recognize on his lower back and mutters a spell. There’s a fizzing inside him, like bubbles popping. Quentin doesn’t have time to process that before both of Eliot’s thumbs are digging into his cheeks, spreading him open—and Eliot’s hot tongue presses against his rim, the texture of muscle on skin, tingling warmth spreading through him, his cock jerking and drooling out precome.

“Oh, fuck—holy—fuck, Eliot—” Quentin sobs, pushing back against Eliot’s face—and Eliot lets out a filthy, satisfied groan against Quentin’s hole like he’s just been waiting to dive in and eat Quentin’s ass like a breakfast buffet. Fingers digging into Quentin’s skin, Eliot dives in deeper, nose pressed to his tailbone, tongue _pushing_ , insistent, until Quentin’s muscles release, little by little, as Eliot kisses and licks and mouths at the puckered skin. He makes a pleased sound as Quentin’s body gives and relaxes. Eliot keeps lapping at him, grunting and groaning, pulling him open and spearing his tongue, wiggling it inside. The nerves along the column of his spine light up, the muscles in his hips and low abdomen tensing and tingling as his body opens, giving itself over to Eliot.

Tears stream down Quentin’s cheeks, his cock so hard that a crackle of pain spreads through him when his dick brushes against a pillow. Eliot pulls back, one hand still firmly gripping his ass. “Tell me if you’re getting too close,” Eliot murmurs, gentle but firm. “I’m going to be inside you when you come.”

Quentin looks back at him, over one shoulder, and Eliot looks—he’s _wrecked_ in a way Quentin has never seen him. Mouth shining, eyes glassy and wild, eyeliner smudged beneath them. His hands tremble a little as he does the tuts for a lube spell and the liquid pours from the air into his palm. “Already close. But if I—if I come, you can just keep—” Eliot drizzles the lube over Quentin’s hole, rubbing his fingers in the slickness, circling it and pressing in with the tip of his finger. 

“I can keep what?” Eliot rubs the pads of his fingers over the puckered flesh, pressing in with one finger—not quite to the first knuckle, but it’s enough for Quentin to feel the slightest stretch. His cock jumps and he makes a choked off sound, punched out from somewhere deep inside as Eliot presses in further. Quentin’s opening flutters, the muscles in his groin and low back tensing and releasing, sending hot a hot swoop of pleasure through his stomach. 

It’s always good, taking something inside like this. Even if Quentin hasn’t taken a real cock, he’s no stranger to his own fingers or toys—the burn, the warmth that spreads through his low back when his body relaxes around the intrusion. But—with the pollen in his system, everything is dialed up to a hundred, each tiny movement setting off new currents of desire, eddies bubbling up from hidden spots, muscles in his hips and ass tingling as Eliot sinks his finger further inside. Quentin bucks forward, hands gripping the headboard so hard that his nails are crushed against the wood, the muscles in his hands and feet jumping, curling inward. 

“El, _fuck—_ You can keep—you can fuck me anyway—I need it—need your dick—more fingers. God your—fingers, what the _fuck_ , oh holy fucking—” The words tumble from his mouth, nonsensical, wild, urgent. He’d be too embarrassed to function if Eliot weren’t fucking into him with his finger, pulling back and fitting a second inside.

“So tight, Q—feel good, or is it—is it too much?” Eliot pants between words, bringing one hand to grip Quentin’s ass.

“No—it’s so—so good, need it so I can take your dick.”

“Good boy. You’re doing so well,” he says spreading Quentin further, stretching him just as—he draws back and slips a third finger inside. 

The sound Quentin makes is something more than a moan—drawn out and animal, cracked at the edges—as he pushes back against Eliot’s hand, bearing down and taking it. It’s on the border of _too much_ , the stretch echoing through him, making his cock jump, his nipples crinkling so hard they hurt. If he keeps rocking back on Eliot like this, he’ll come all over the sea of throw pillows, so he stops, gasping as Eliot twists and scissors his fingers. He feels like every bit of tension is being plucked from his body, hammered out, and replaced with a singing bliss as he opens and opens. Quentin is crying again, actual tears streaming over his cheeks, when Eliot sinks a fourth finger inside. Quentin pushes back, keening, his own cock swinging heavy and painful between his legs. “El, Eliot—please. I’m ready, I’m—I’m fucking ready, please I need you inside. Wanna feel you. _Please_. I’ll be—I’ll be good—”

“Yeah? You think you—you think you can?” Eliot’s voice wavers again, even as he expertly fucks into Quentin with his fingers. “Won’t be able to slow down once I get inside you.”

“Yeah, I’m ready, I swear,” Quentin says, his voice light and breathy. He looks back over his shoulder again and watches as Eliot slips his fingers out, leaving Quentin whining and empty as he draws lube from the air again and slicks up the length of his cock, shuddering and jerking forward into his hand. 

“Hold on, Q.” His voice is gentle as he smooths his hand over the small of Quentin’s back and pulls him open, placing the blunt head of his cock at his entrance. 

Quentin’s stomach flips as Eliot lets out a long, quavering sound, and starts to push, past the resistance of Quentin’s opening and, making a broken, ragged sound, stretches Quentin enough to— “Oh, _fuck_ , El—oh _fuck_ —” —pop the head of his dick inside. 

“I’ve got you,” Eliot murmurs, hands on either side of Quentins ass again, spreading him apart as he shifts and nudges his cock in just a little further. Quentin’s toes curl reflexively as he pants, eyes rolling back in his head as he takes just the barest bit more. “That’s so fucking tight—fuck, you have no idea how good you feel. If I— _oh_ —” Eliot pushes in a hint more, pulling back before pushing forward again, giving Quentin a half inch or so more. “—if I didn’t come in your mouth, I’d be— _fuck_ —coming inside that ass right now. Can’t have that.” 

It’s on the fringe of too much, like the slide of Eliot’s three fingers the first time, a burning taking root in his thighs, his cock heavy and dripping steadily—but Jesus, it’s _good_ . Quentin can feel Eliot inside him—everywhere—in the heat of his cheeks, the clench of his jaw, in the muscles jumping in his spine. It’s almost too much, yeah, but it’s also entirely not _enough_ . He wants it _all_ , now, wants Eliot bouncing off his ass and he— _pushes_ back. 

“You can do anything to me,” Quentin mumbles, his thoughts in free fall, “use me like you— _God_ —like you need. I wish—wish we could—” Quentin bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his words contained because this glitter pollen bullshit is absolutely the best thing that’s ever come out of magic—better than mending cups or pulling cards from thin air—but it’s also making Quentin goddamn maudlin, truths he hasn’t dared speak sitting on the tip of his tongue. But Eliot is plunging deeper, making the most beautiful sound Quentin’s ever heard—satisfaction and relief and blooms of pleasure expanding in Quentin’s mind as he listens, listens to Eliot’s voice, as he feels himself flutter open and take that gorgeous dick—and the truth is— “—I wish we could always—be like this—you could always—”

He doesn’t know if Eliot heard him because all he can hear is ragged, wet panting and all he can feel is the length of Eliot’s dick—three quarters of it, maybe—shoved in his ass, Eliot’s thumbs pressing into his hips, blunt nails making tiny crescents of pain as they dig into his skin. And— “Q, baby, _God_ , I should have fucked you that night. That morning. I should have—”

“Always wanted you, El, you could have—anything, I—” he babbles. He thinks the word, biting down on it before it falls from his mouth. It’s there, living in his mouth; it’s been batting around in his brain for weeks, and it surges to the surface, keeps on hitting him—when he plays chess with Eliot in the throne room and when he watches Eliot put on his crown before meeting with the High Council and when Eliot puts on his apron and bakes muffins in the kitchens. The thought is woven into his tapestry, as surely as he fell for Julia or Alice or James—but this is; it’s different. “I—” He stops, limbs like jelly, pushing back on Eliot’s dick to fucking shut himself up.

“Q, take it easy—I don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart,” Eliot says, so gentle. “I’m holding back for—”

“Don’t—hold back—I want it. Gonna lose my mind—I need it all. El—”

Eliot’s body is tensed, holding back—quivering again. But he pushes in further, giving Quentin more, almost all of it, Eliot’s knees touching the backs of his legs as he draws in closer. “You okay?”

Quentin nods, slow, head heavy. “Y-yeah. I’m. So good.” He stretches his fingers over the wood, pressing them down again so that his nails go white. He’s never been so full, so open—and there’s still _more_. His thighs tremble, aching, his cock leaking, jerking again as Eliot, grunting and digging his fingers into Quentin’s skin, pushes in the barest bit deeper. He wishes this was his reality instead of a hazy sex magic fever dream. But it’s—that’s not how it is, is it? He blinks, willing the thought away, banishing it. 

“You can sink the rest of the way down,” Eliot says, big, warm hands moving up over Quentin’s ass and settling just above his hips. Eliot could almost wrap his hands all the way around Quentin’s waist. The thought flies, wild, through his mind, settling inside the vault of distractingly horny Eliot facts that he generally keeps tucked away but—the lid has flipped open, and Quentin may need to run after this, just never show his face in Fillory again. His spiral breaks when Eliot groans, thumbs tucked into the divots of Quentin’s hips as he tugs him back. Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, and he whimpers—the sensation of being split open intensifies, the feeling climbing his spine and prickling over the back of his head. “Just stay like that and bear down—”

Cheeks angry-red and hot, Quentin presses back, Eliot’s big hands tugging him—God, he’s dreamed about this so many times—until Eliot bottoms out, hips pressed flush with Quentin’s ass, stuttering and twitching like he’s trying to keep himself still. 

“El—” The word is almost mournful when he says it, almost plaintive—because this is—it’s the only time he’ll get Eliot like this. He can focus on that—Eliot’s cock thick and solid, holding him open, blood hot inside. 

“Q, so good,” Eliot says, tender, hips hitching as he drapes himself over Quentin’s back, hot breath over his shoulder and neck. Eliot’s hand slides forward, landing just above his solar plexus as his lips trail over Quentin’s shoulder, landing close to his ear. It’s slow at first, Eliot’s fingers twitching against him as he rocks, gentle, pulling back just enough to nudge his cock inside Quentin, pressing back deep. The slight movements set off sparks, lighting up his nerves and rising like wildfire through his limbs, settling low in his hips. Eliot is—everywhere, surrounding him, holding him tight and close and firm as he fucks Quentin in short bursts, cradling him like something precious.

Eliot pulls his hips back further this time— “God, you’re so good, Q, so tight and you—you took it all so easy, like you were born to take it.” —and, brushing his lips over Quentin’s shoulder, he [thrusts in hard, letting out a jagged, desperate sound, throaty and low. “Fuck, I—I need to—” He takes a long, shuddering breath and pulls all the way back, plunging back inside and crying out. “I need to—”

“Please.” The word comes out like a whine, and Eliot chuckles, thrusting inside again. 

“That’s what you want, hm? Want me to fuck you good and hard?” Eliot’s hands slide over his sides to grip his hips again, where he gets leverage, thrusting back inside so hard Quentin’s palms hurt against the carved headboard. 

“Yeah,” Quentin says, panting, pushing his hips back to meet Eliot’s cock. “Yeah, I do. Want it—harder—”

“Gonna give it to you.” Eliot makes desperate, choked off sounds as he thrusts, his first thrusts careless and wild, but he falls into a rhythm, his throaty sounds going lower, more intense as he fucks inside. The sounds of sex fill the room, slick and hot, Eliot fucking into him so hard he bounces off of the muscles of Quentin’s ass. “You’ve got the best ass—been wanting to get inside you so long. Oh fuck—” Eliot makes a deep, cracked noise and stops, shuddering, his fingers digging into Quentin’s skin. “You’ve got me so close, Q.”

Quentin turns back and looks at Eliot, at the sheen of sweat covering his neck and chest, his curls damp, lips bitten pink. His lips tremble, arms aching and stretched as he clutches the headboard. Eliot is rocking into him slowly now, making soft, pained sounds. He’s stunning like this, falling apart inside him. Each drag of Eliot’s cock sparks over Quentin’s prostate, showers of light falling through him. “Come inside me, then. And then fuck me again.”

“God, baby, Q—you need it bad, need my come, hm?”

Quentin nods wildly, gritting his teeth as Eliot pulls back and shoves into him, leaning back for leverage and gripping his waist as he thrusts in harder, impaling him with his huge dick. “I’ll swallow that pretty dick after I come in this little ass. Then I’ll use you again—” Eliot pants, whining and grunting as he pulls Quentin’s hips hard, going faster, harder, stretching him. 

Quentin’s been sitting at the precipice for so long that—as much as he wants to come in Eliot’s mouth—it’s building in him, his cock leaking as Eliot grinds, hard and fast, over his prostate. He cries out weakly as Eliot crams himself inside over and over, a steady stream coming from his cock as his body ratchets up, his balls drawing up so tight it hurts. Eliot hits him right where he needs once, twice, three times— “Harder,” he whimpers. “Harder, I’m almost—”

Eliot grips him and fucks into him harder, growling when Quentin looks back at him again. It hits him when he locks eyes with Eliot. He’s so in love with him, his king, he thinks as Eliot fucks his orgasm out of him, his cock and ass pulsing as the wave crashes over him, all-consuming and undeniable, his body tipping into oblivion.

“God, look at you. Coming so good on my dick,” Eliot says in wonder, still fucking him fast and hard, Quentin shaking and sobbing as he comes in almost painful spurts, his body wracked and used up, going limp and boneless as Eliot grunts and groans, filling him to the hilt with each movement. Eliot clutches at his waist, their eyes still locked, as his hips stutter, and he sighs, smiling and laughing as he bucks his hips into Quentin’s ass. His eyes flutter closed, and he imagines he can feel it, the warmth spreading inside.

Eliot kisses the back of his neck, pulling them down together, his cock still hard and buried inside. Eliot bucks his hips experimentally a few more times with Quentin on his side, his body trembling against Quentin’s. Quentin turns his head, their teeth clacking together as Eliot comes in for another kiss. He whimpers when Eliot pulls out, turning to deepen the kiss because—he still needs a piece of Eliot inside him. The pollen is still swirling inside, dancing through him, lighter, maybe than it was before, but not gone—no. Quentin’s cock is getting hard again just from being close, the scent of Eliot’s sweat and come heavy and erotic, humid between them. “El,” he whimpers. “Feel so good. Please just—keep touching me—”

“Of course, my love,” Eliot murmurs, turning Quentin’s body toward his. Eliot’s cock is stiffening up again against Quentin’s thigh, and he’s moaning into Quentin’s mouth, hands roaming over his chest and plucking at his nipples. It sinks in, well after the fact, what Eliot just said, just called him but—Quentin can’t put any stock in it because—it’s just tonight. That’s all they have, isn’t it? “Tell me how you want me,” Eliot murmurs against his mouth. “Anything, it’s yours—”

“Your mouth—I’ve been—I got off so many times just thinking about your mouth on me,” Quentin says, shouting when Eliot takes his cock in hand again. “God, I need it.”

He watches in wonder as Eliot kisses down his body and sucks him down to the root, pushing Quentin’s hips into the mattress as he shows off his prowess. Quentin would say something about Eliot being an arrogant cock, but he’s busy losing his absolute mind, busy burying his hands in Eliot’s hair and throwing his head back as Eliot shows him the depth of his desire. 

It blends together after that, the separate acts of sex bleeding into one another and becoming one continuous moving thing—Quentin coming down Eliot’s through, Eliot slicking himself up and sliding inside again as he presses Quentin into the mattress, their lips slotted together, Eliot jerking off with Quentin’s fingers moving inside. At some point, they fall asleep, the pollen still inside them but their exhaustion winning out for an hour or two of sleep. 

Quentin is pressed to Eliot’s back, his cock pressed against the cleft of Eliot’s ass, when he comes to consciousness. His head is clearer now, and the light filtering inside the room is pale and gray, predawn expanding over the landscape outside. As Quentin blinks, he realizes, the door to the room has been open all night—anyone could have seen or heard them. Someone probably _had_. He bites his lip and moans, his cock stiffening up at the thought. 

It’s filthy and hedonistic and utterly fucked up, but he’d have Eliot fuck him in front of the entire Fillorian High Council, just to show everyone this is—it’s exactly where Eliot belongs. With him. His hand roams over the meat of Eliot’s thigh, his hand and Eliot’s ass still slick with oil, slick enough that it feels—oh, so fucking good when he rocks against him like this. Quentin’s hips hitch forward, and he grips Eliot’s hip, kissing over Eliot’s shoulder. Part of him wants to let Eliot sleep but—he’s still fucked up on the—fucking flower or whatever it was, and—they’ve only got a few hours until Eliot needs to fulfill his duties as king. 

“Starting without me?” Eliot mumbles into his pillow, laughing and reaching behind him to grab Quentin’s hand. 

Quentin presses his lips to the back of Eliot’s neck, nosing into his hair. He’s unreal, Quentin thinks. Preternaturally golden, ethereal. More suited to Fillory than Quentin ever was—a creature apart. Quentin wants him so endlessly, loves him like he’s never loved anyone. Maybe he wanted to be like Eliot when they first met, but now he just wants to be _with_ him, exist in his orbit, give him what he can. “Wouldn’t dream of finishing without you.” He laughs, burying his head against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Eliot presses Quentin’s palm to his lips and kisses him there. “I’ll give you anything.”

“Can I fuck you?”

Eliot turns and presses his lips to Quentin’s in a crushing kiss before Quentin can start overthinking whether or not he’s ruined things by asking this. “Yeah,” Eliot says, soft against his lips, hand cupping the side of Quentin’s face. “How do you want me?”

“On your back if that’s—if it’s okay?” 

Eliot nods, pressing his foreheads to Quentin’s. “My quads are a little worn out, so this is a good development.” 

Quentin laughs as they move together, pulling back the covers as he crawls between Eliot’s legs and bends to kiss him. “It’s—uh—okay? Is it—”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, blinking up at him, all long lashed and pretty, tousled curls falling over his eyes. Holy fuck, there’s never been a more stunning man, and that man is High King of Fillory. Holy _fuck_. “Been a while, but—anything with you.”

“You’re beautiful,” Quentin says. “I just wish we—”

Eliot catches the side of Quentin’s face, brushing his thumb over the line of his cheekbone. “Let’s not talk.” With the other hand, Eliot draws Quentin in close, their cocks nested together. Eliot is hard and hot against him, hand splayed over his low back, holding him in close. “Less talking, more fucking.”

“It’s just, um—”

“Q—”

“I like you. I’ve liked you a lot for a long time.” Either the pollen is doing its truth serum bullshit again, or he’s reached the slap-happy point of exhaustion where it feels like saying this shit is a good idea. “And I wish—I wish things were different.”

Eliot pauses, lips pursed. “I know. They’re not.” He traces his fingers over the line of Quentin’s jaw. “That’s just the way it is. But we’re still on the fuck pollen train, so at least we have that.”

Quentin laughs, helpless against his shoulder, kissing his neck and letting his hands roam over the muscles in his arms, the notches of his ribs, the edges of his hipbones. When he sits back, his head is floating, swimming with the closeness, here and now with Eliot, so present and yet so temporary. “We’ll always have the fuck pollen.”

“Come on, Coldwater. Show me a good time.”

“I’ll give it my best,” he murmurs, looking hungrily over Eliot’s body. In the dim, early light, he looks more fae than human, exquisite. Quentin runs his hands over Eliot’s thighs, up to the base of his cock, hard and flushed red at the tip. When Quentin grips him, he sucks in a sharp breath and spreads his long legs. Quentin might actually pass out, he thinks, breath coming hard and fast—but God, he wants this. Wants Eliot every way he can have him. 

Hands more or less steady, he tuts out the lube spell, and a pool of slick gathers in his palm. He inches forward, cocking Eliot’s leg over his hip and pressing two fingers to his hole, light and teasing, slicking him up before he presses in—careful, so careful—fitting one and then the other inside. A thrill rises up Quentin’s spine as Eliot gasps, legs trembling, thigh jumping next to Quentin’s. 

“That’s—feels so good— _oh_ —your hands—” Eliot presses his head back against the pillow, eyes closed, and he presses one leg out, planting his foot and rolling his hips up. He twists his fingers inside, scissoring them like Eliot did, careful not to go too rough or fast, but Eliot is panting and moaning like he loves it, like Quentin had loved it. Quentin watches Eliot—his face, the slight jump in his cock—as he slides a third finger inside. Letting out a rough, needy sound, Eliot arches his hips and pushes down like he’s welcoming Quentin inside. 

“Beautiful—you’re beautiful,” Quentin murmurs, pushing in all the way and leaning forward to rub his face against Eliot’s chest, tongue darting out over one nipple and then the other. Eliot jolts and threads his fingers through Quentin’s hair as he works inside Eliot with his fingers. It’s so easy, easier than it was with Quentin, and he’s struck with the thought that—Eliot knows better what he’s doing and—it’s unspeakably hot, that Eliot wants this, that he’s giving this to Quentin.

“Doing so good,” Eliot says, his voice rasping, “you can—get inside me. Come on.”

“You sure?” Quentin pushes back up, heart beating fast. 

“Yeah. Make me yours, baby.”

“ _Fuck_.” Eliot gives him a grin as he brings his hand to his cock, squeezing at the base, hand traveling from base to tip, thumb swiping over the head. Quentin almost gets distracted just watching Eliot’s dick, but his cock is _aching_ —and it’s not insane like it was earlier, but the ache is insistent. Trembling, Quentin pulls his fingers out and lines himself up at Eliot’s entrance, pressing the tip of his cock against the tight ring of muscle, pressing in slow until the head of his dick is inside. He shudders, watching Eliot as he pants and jerks himself off, slow and steady. “I’m gonna—more—alright?”

“Yeah, give it to me.” Eliot bites his lip, lifting one leg to wrap around Quentin’s waist as he slides and presses, planting his knees and pushing all the way in until he’s flush with Eliot’s ass. 

“Oh my _God_.” He holds himself there, panting, 

“Feel good?” Eliot’s hands loop around his neck as he starts to move his hips and it is—it’s so good—

“It’s tight,” he says, his voice cracking. He places his hands on either side of Eliot’s chest, thrusting in hard, a shock of pleasure jolting through his body like lightning in an electrical storm. It is so tight—and yielding and smooth and slick. Arousal pours through him, slower and broader than what he felt when Eliot was inside of him. That had been hot, deep rushes of hunger—this is simmering liquid, lava rising from the earth. “El, you feel—so fucking good.”

Eliot is stroking himself as Quentin fucks into him, making soft sounds every time Quentin bottoms out. “Yeah, just like that, so good, baby. Gonna make me come.” The words are whispered, intimate and tender, as Eliot puts his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck, rolling hips up to meet Quentin’s, his breath coming fast.

“Yeah? I’m close, gonna—” Quentin rocks into him hard and fast, the drag and clench of Eliot’s ass sending flame licking over his body, building from the nexus of his cock and searing through his body. The pressure builds deep in his hips as he thrusts harder into Eliot, losing rhythm. 

“God, Q, baby—” Eliot throws his head back and lets out a long, low moan, hand moving fast over his cock. He meets Quentin’s mouth in a biting kiss as his muscles seize and he spills hot between them, his body clenching around Quentin’s dick, wet and snug. 

Quentin keeps pumping inside him, groaning and gaining speed, his belly wet with Eliot’s come. The pressure mounts inside, building and building until he tips over the edge. His mouth falls open, a shocky groan falling from his lips as the rush of orgasm hits him, searing through his body like wildfire. His hips catch, spasms rolling through his low back and hips, down the backs of his thighs as he fills Eliot up, coming hard and deep inside. 

Sunlight from the new dawn is pooling through the window when his conscious mind comes back to him. He’s still buried inside Eliot, and he thinks he must be recovered from the pollen—his head is clearer now. 

Quentin shifts on the bed, gasping when he pulls out and rolls to his side. He pulls Eliot close to him and kisses his lovely lips, one hand languid against his waist. When the sun hits them, Quentin pulls back in a daze—it looks like Eliot’s skin is glowing—when he looks down at his hands, he is, too.

“The fuck?”

“Oh—oh—what the fuck whimsical bullshit is this?” 

“Some fucking magic bullshit,” Quentin says. “Is it—was it the sex pollen or—” Quentin’s words fail him as he looks down at his hand; it’s still glowing gold, like he’s lit from within. Acting on instinct, he takes Eliot’s hand in his, grasping it and threading their fingers together. The sensation hits, a wild rush of warmth, and he can sense the magic working—binding, knitting together, like threads being tied. 

He realizes, as he looks at Eliot, lips well kissed and hair tousled to perfection, a vision of regal perfection, that it’s Eliot he’s being joined to. It doesn’t bother him, not like it should—no, this feels _right._ Like this is what should be happening. He cups Eliot’s cheek and leans in to kiss him, gasping into Eliot’s mouth when he responds, tongue glancing against his teeth, hand moving to the back of Quentin’s neck. 

Quentin’s pretty sure he could move onto round whatever-the-fuck—his cock is stirring just from being kissed and held so close, Eliot so warm next to him. He deepens the kiss as Eliot’s hand moves to the center of his back, pulling him so he’s straddling Eliot again. Yeah, God, he’s exhausted, but he could do this and keep doing this—

“Well, fuck me sideways, it looks like these dicks got a dose of the Fillorian Fucking Flower, too.” 

Quentin rolls off of Eliot with a squeak, tangling one of the silk coverlets around himself in the process and promptly falling onto the floor. When he looks up, he sees Eliot peeking over from from his side of the bed and Margo—eye makeup smudged, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing a long sleeved silk dressing gown and bare feet. 

“That’s actually the Fillorian Fucking Freesia—we call them Fuck Me Nows.” Fen steps up from behind Margo and slips a hand around her waist, which Margo doesn’t seem to mind and—wow, they look like they had a rough night. 

“Whatever the flying fuck—they got dosed with this Fillorian sex shit. No one in the books said that everything and everyone here either wants you to fight, die, or fuck.”

Quentin pulls the coverlet around his waist. Eliot, Fen, and Margo are all looking at _him_ , like Eliot isn’t also naked and covered in evidence of the Fillorian Fucking Whatever. “Um—did you say—you guys—” He looks between Fen and Margo.

“Oh yeah,” Margo says. “I’d say it wasn’t my normal type of ladies’ night, but.” She shrugs. “I’ve had my fair share that ended up that way. But we fucked it out a few times—”

“Uh. A few times—”

“It’s good it only lasts two hours,” Fen says. “But it does look like we’re married now. Which is—I’m just putting it out there—the best solution to the whole arranged marriage system.”

“You’re _what_?” Quentin blinks. And then blinks again. It only lasts _how long_?

“Married, I guess,” Margo says. “The binding magic is activated by sex because this place is fucked up as shit.” 

“Ah, well. Congratulations,” Eliot says, a tentative quality to his voice. “How did you know that the binding magic took effect?”

Margo cocks her thumb at Fen. “I woke up about fifteen minutes ago feeling real fuckin weird. I thought it was the pollen—but—Fen and I were—”

“ _Glowing_ —it was so beautiful. Just like I always imagined. I’d heard of it happening between people who weren’t technically married in the ceremony, but that’s— _rare_. But Margo—” Fen says her name reverently, looking at her like she hung the moons. “—she’s a High Queen of firsts. Slaying the Beast—”

“That was Julia and Alice,” Eliot says, clearly unimpressed. Quentin doesn’t know how to take that, exactly. Is he upset that Margo stole his wife or—

“Well, shit. Don’t break down Fen’s dreams. I’m a fuckin’ hero. Just like you assholes.” Margo narrows her eyes, looking between Quentin and Eliot. “You two got one of those little heart-shaped boxes. You fucked. Did you _glow_?”

“Uh—we—” He looks up at Eliot, meeting his gaze. His expression is unreadable.

“Yes. It seems that we did,” Eliot says, mustering up as much dignity as he can. “Thought it was a side effect of the pollen. Ours lasted a bit longer—so we were awake already. And it happened just after—”

“After you fucked? So you thought it had to do with the pollen— _classic_.” Margo cackles. “Thought there was something going on there when Coldwater forgot I existed once Eliot’s dick entered the chat.”

“It _is_ an impressive dick, Bambi,” Eliot says lightly. He clears his throat. “Am I to understand that the glowing thing was a marriage bond?” 

“Oh, yes,” Fen says. “That’s definitely what it was. And the pollen lasts two hours. Now—I’ve read that it can last longer if you’re _already_ in love.

Quentin cringes, huddling in on himself. Obviously, this is the kind of situation he would get himself into—permanently married to his best friend— _fuck_. And Eliot’s going to know Quentin’s in love with him because of the fuck pollen. He can—he can just—find a way to fix it. That’s what he does. He can fix it, and they can get a Fillorian divorce. Bribe Ember and fix it so that Eliot can be with someone he wants—

Quentin groans and rests his head on his knees, pressing his fingers to his temples. 

“Bambi, Fen—could you give us a minute?” Eliot is still using that same distant tone of voice. It sends something cold and slimy flopping through Quentin’s stomach. This isn’t good—this is so not good. It’s the _opposite_ of good. God. 

“Yeah,” Margo says. “We’ve got shit to talk about, too. But I’m good. Fen takes Alice’s spot as queen. We have a Fillorian actually making decisions for the Fillorian people, and I have a hot wife. We revisit the fidelity clause and see if we can get that worked out in a few years—”

“High Queen of Firsts,” Fen says, which Quentin takes as a signal that they’ve already discussed this? Really, good for them. Because Quentin is fucked, and his vision is narrowing to a hard gray point on the floor in front of him.

“—we’ll be fine,” Margo concludes. “Well _all_ be fine. You two fucknuts figure out your shit and we’ll have a meeting later. And then a cute double wedding or some shit. Congrats.”

Quentin hears the padding of bare feet over the stone floor and the door shutting behind them. He doesn’t register the next part, but he knows Eliot must get him onto the bed somehow because that’s where he comes to, wrapped up in Eliot’s arms, which is good—it’s just the best thing, being held by Eliot. He hopes this doesn’t break their friendship because he just wants to keep this, this closeness. 

“Hey, Q, where’d you go, baby?”

Quentin shivers and huddles into Eliot. Now that he’s solidly awake, he feels vaguely hungover. Also sore. He’s pretty sure he’s covered in hickies, and Fen and Margo got an eyeful. Did they see his dick? He presses his nose to Eliot’s neck. He smells _so_ good. Before he knows what’s happening, Eliot is kissing him, heavy and hard and full of meaning. Quentin sighs into it, letting Eliot move him where he wants, take what he needs—but all too soon it stops, and Eliot’s giving him an uncharacteristically serious look. 

“Hey. So,” Eliot says, “You said you wished things were different.”

“Um. Yeah. I mean. I wished—” Fuck it—just, fuck it. “—I wished you weren’t married to Fen. I just. Like you a lot. Like a—a whole, whole lot. Like, I like being your friend but also—I think you’re beautiful. I wished I could, like, date you? I guess. But that’s not how our lives work.”

“Ah. No, it doesn’t seem to be.” He smooths Quentin’s hair back and draws him in close, kissing his forehead. “I know we can figure something out if you want to bail—”

Quentin squeezes his eyes shut. “I, like—really don’t want to bail. I wanna maybe. Give it a shot. But if you want to—”

“I’d like that,” Eliot says. “I’ve been falling for you for a long time, Q.”

“Oh?” Fireworks go off in the depth of Quentin’s mind, sparking and exploding. He’s wanted this for so long, thought about it so many times, but he never thought he’d actually be here, sitting with Eliot, listening to him—having a fucking feeling.

“Yeah. Provided that you can tolerate me, I’d like to see if I can give you everything you deserve.” Eliot clears his throat. “Goddamn—that pollen is strong. Think it’s still in my system.”

“You were—I mean you’re still—affected by the pollen?”

“Think so,” Eliot says, laughing. “In fact—I’m absolutely fine with not talking anymore about anything right now.” 

“Yeah? That’s—well. That’s what I was thinking before. That I’d like to work out a few of the fantasies I’ve had about being in the king’s bed.”

“You’ve been having fantasies?”

“Well—have you looked in a mirror recently? Because I don’t know if there’s anyone in Fillory not fantasizing about you right now, El.” 

“Maybe you could tell me,” Eliot says. “Or if you don’t feel like telling me, you could show me.”

Quentin just kisses him in response—there’s plenty of time to work out the particulars.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna hear me scream about Magicians et al on Tumblr, I'm at [@hoko-onchi-writes](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hoko-onchi-writes). On Twitter I'm [@asavvymama](https://twitter.com/asavvymama), but I'm not there as much.


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